


One is Enough War Wounds

by PositivePumpkin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale has Chronic Pain, Aziraphale was injured in Heaven, But neither remember, Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chronic Pain, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley was the injurer, Hurt/Comfort, Massage, Other, Past Violence, until one does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 12:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivePumpkin/pseuds/PositivePumpkin
Summary: Fill for 2 prompts!1) Aziraphale's old injury from the war acts up. It's on those days that Crowley gives him a tender massage.2) Aziraphale and Crowley did actually meet long ago in Heaven, they met on the battlefield during Lucifer's rebellion. Crowley caused Aziraphale's injury that still affects him in Heaven, and occasionally leaks into his corporeal form. Crowley is the one who remembers one day in the form of a flashback





	One is Enough War Wounds

After the armege-damn-it-all, Crowley and Aziraphale had begun to spend much more time together. Often, they made plans to just be together, going for more walks in St. James, dining out regularly, or just simply curling up in the bookshop and being in the same room together without fear. Yet, somehow Crowley still hadn't discovered the secret Aziraphale kept. It wasn't maliciously done, it just, was hard to think about. Aziraphale knew Crowley didn't talk about his time in Heaven, before The War, the first war, before humans, before earth, before, just, before. And well, Aziraphale wasn't going to bring it up, talking about The War, about what happened to him was bad enough, no need to stress Crowley.

Which is why it was such a shame that the old injury decided to flare up today, locking the muscles of his leg, tight and painful. They had plans to go for a walk and check out that new kebab place opening up just down the road. But there was no way Aziraphale was up for that today. He couldn't even be bothered to try and get up to close shop, just snapped his finger and called it good enough.

A few people tried to get inside, but they were resolutely ignored. The ache in his leg made Aziraphale much more irritable than the usual tetchiness caused by customers. He hated when it got like this. The tight ache, a dull throbbing where he’d been irreparably injured. A jagged rip into his very essence. He tried to rub away the old ache, a miracle dancing from hand to thigh, but like always, it didn’t work. The angel was doing his best glare-down at his leg, as if it would help any, when the door opened.

“We are most assuredly _closed_,” Aziraphale bit out, anger colouring his tone with a bit of divine fury.

“Whoa, Angel,” Crowley’s voice, soft and concerned instantly brought a warm wash of shame over Aziraphale. He hadn’t meant to snap at the demon. “What’s the matter?” The demon in question walked over, a bottle of wine with a red satin bow in one hand, and the other holding a box of what, Aziraphale presumed to be, sweets.

“I’m sorry, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said miserably, biting his lip to prevent himself from getting overly emotional about something that was, well, just the way of things. Crowley put the bottle and box of sweets on the counter, then took Aziraphale’s face in his hands. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, I just…” he sighed, and removed the sunglasses from Crowley’s eyes.

“You can tell me, Angel,” Crowley murmured, gentle and so earnest Aziraphale caved. His grip on his thigh tightened, and would’ve drawn the serpent’s attention, if he hadn’t pressed his forehead against his dear boy’s. Crowley closed his eyes and gently breathed in the angel’s scent. Cologne, but underneath that the fresh smell after a hard rain, dusty parchment, and ethereal feathers.

“It’s nothing, really,” Aziraphale began, trying for reassuring, but coming out instead with an age-old weariness felt deep in his corporation’s bones. He sighed deep and long at Crowley’s insistent and slightly hurt look, “it’s just, an old war wound. Nothing to be done about it.”

He had been idly rubbing Aziraphale’s cheeks with his thumbs, but at the mention of a war wound, he had withdrawn. Standing up and beginning to pace, restless energy becoming him. Crowley’s attention went back onto Aziraphale, anger flashing bright in his eyes, “war wound? Which war? How on Earth does it still hurt?”

“Not…” Aziraphale trailed off, suddenly unsure. He mussed with the seam of his trousers, dangerously close to the old scar. He bit his lip before forcing himself to continue, looking away from Crowley, not in shame, but in some sort of fear, “not from any Earthly war.” It was quiet, barely there, but all the more loud for the silence in the bookshop.

“You mean…” Crowley began, before visions began flashing in front of his eyes.

_He was in Heaven, and there was a War being waged around him. Brothers and Sisters fighting each other. He’d only asked questions! How was he supposed to love humans more than Her? If they were to be so loved, why will She test them so? Why must they suffer? How was any of this fair? _

_And he’d been cast out from Her sight. Samael, now known as Lucifer, had handed him a blade. Who was he to be fighting? He could not strike down his fellow angels. He was meant to Heal not Hurt. Everything around him was chaos. The Silver City turned gold and bright with the blood of angels. He ran._

_He dodged and jumped and flew over angels engaged in combat, engaged in dying, engaged in Falling. The Fall as demons called it, The Great War as angels called it. All around him he could feel the pain and suffering of his fellow angels. The betrayal and hurt was thick in the air. He wanted so desperately to stop and help the injured, but he couldn’t. If he stopped, then the Archangels would find him, would kill him, or worse…._

_Then, he looked up, and the Silver City seemed so far away despite surrounding them. There! A Cherub, **his** Cherub. Aziraphael. Made for him, his own personal soldier, guard, and in some secret part of him that he daren’t show for fear of this exact scenario, love. _

_Aziraphael looked scared, but determined, the flaming sword alight in his hand. He spoke, but in this flash back the words weren’t heard, although the intent still painfully clear. **I’ll follow you**. No, no, no, no, no. NO. Raphael, no, Crowley, did not know what was in store for him for the treachery of asking questions. He couldn’t allow his Cherub to follow him down. _

_He walked over, refusing to look at his Cherub. **Aziraphael, forgive me**. With his eyes closed against the pain, the torment he was about to cause, he slashed his blade. Although his eyes were closed, he could still see the anguish on Aziraphael’s face, could still feel the heartbreak, could still hear the drops of gold and liquid light dripping off his blade. He turned and threw his blade down, sickened by what he’d done. Then, finally opening his eyes again, refusing to look back, he fled. _

_When he approached the edge of Heaven, he could see others like him being cast out, being thrown from the most high, most Holy of places into a new place. A burning pool of fire, brimstone, Sulphur millions of lightyears away. He closed his eyes once more as he heard the Cherub screaming his name, heard the limping step as Aziraphael still tried to follow him. Then, he flung himself from the edge. _

When he came back to the present, it was to the angel, a Principality now, when had they demoted him? Was that his fault as well? He looked up, Aziraphale’s face was scrunched up in pain, discomfort, and concern. He was shouting something, not that Crowley could understand or hear with the sound of his Cherub’s screaming still echoing in his head.

He blinked tears out of his eyes, he hadn’t even known he’d had tear ducts. Snakes didn’t normally have those, did they? One of Aziraphale’s hands was hovering, as if unsure whether or not it was okay to touch the demon; the other, was gripping his thigh—_golden blood, light flashing bright, a rip into his very essence_—right where he’d sliced so long ago.

“Aziraphale,” his voice sounded breathy and harsh, his throat was strangely sore. He swallowed, the action not doing enough to soothe the ache in his throat, and not touching the ache in that wretched emptiness that was left in him after The Fall. Crowley reached out shaking hands, before pulling them back quickly before he could touch, taint, _hurt_ the angel further. “You’re hurt, let me,” he swallowed hard again, “_please_, let me help you.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s own voice was a harsh whisper, tight with the pain in his thigh. He closed his eyes in a frown, biting the inside of his cheek hard, before continuing, “there’s nothing you can do about it. Now, dear boy,” at this, his eyes opened, and he looked soft, though the glint of pain remained, “what happened to you? Are you… are you alright?”

“Aziraphale, there is nothing more I want right now, than to take care of you,” Crowley looked hesitantly, before deciding to just go for it. He moved forward, then gently and carefully lifted Aziraphale by the underarms and then maneuvering him into a bridal carry. It was telling how hurt the angel was that he hadn’t even complained.

“Okay, my dear boy,” Aziraphale sighs, some of the tension leaving his face as he was no longer putting weight on his leg. Crowley cradled his head as he walked upstairs to the flat and laid Aziraphale down on the dusty bed, that was of course free of dust by the time the angel hit the duvet. The angel looked up, trying for a stern expression, but it was tight with pain, “we _will_ be talking about this later, my dear.”

Crowley’s hands fluttered, an embarrassed flush painting his cheeks, before he gingerly asked, “can I,” he swallowed hard, “can I take off your trousers? I’d like to try and massage you. I, uh, have heard that helps.” At Aziraphale’s nod, he began unbuttoning the angel’s trousers, carefully moving his legs to slide the ancient material off. Seeing the sock garters made him smile soppily, before he unfastened them and pulled them and the socks off as well.

The scar was a burnished golden mar on Aziraphale’s pale thigh. It was thankfully a clean cut, should’ve healed nicely, perhaps would have if he’d still been in Heaven. Crowley blinked into seeing the ethereal form of his angelic companion. He tutted as he saw the angry red glare burning where his metaphysical thigh was.

Crowley blinked back into seeing the physical plane to find Aziraphale staring at him carefully. The demon rubbed his hands together, warming them with a sparking flame before putting the hellfire out. The smell of chamomile filled the bedroom as the scented oils he’d miracled onto his hands warmed. He wasn’t The Healer, not anymore, that was ripped from him as he Fell from God’s light, but he could still dull the edges of pain.

Warm slick hands meet soft thigh. Crowley closes his eyes once more, concentrating on feeling the muscles, feeling how tight they are. He rubs first, warming the cold thigh underneath him, allowing Aziraphale to get used to his touch. Then long slender fingers were loosening aching muscles, and almost immediately, Aziraphale was relaxing with a groaning appreciation.

While his fingers gently worked at the tight muscles, Crowley let his body work, his mind going to that little spark deep inside. The burnt-out Grace that he’d picked at over the years, a tiny kernel of his old Essence covered in blackened and charred Corruption. He had curled around and protected that old bit of himself, curled tight around as it developed a crust of demonic Corruption, turning him into a snake. Every time he’d ever dug into that old piece of himself, he’d had to spend weeks to recover as the Grace tried to burn him from the inside out.

But well, it was worth it, this sort of Repentance for his crimes in Heaven.

If Aziraphale felt his broken, cracked Grace, he didn’t comment. Crowley was certain if his eyes had been open, they’d be glowing with this power moving through his fingertips. Ever so careful, he pinched his brow and smoothed over the tear gently calming the angry, irritated red glow about it. He focused on the nerves and neurons firing, eased them into a near painless regrowth. He wasn’t The Healer, not anymore, but he could still use the last of his dying Grace to do this for Aziraphale, to help fix the wound he caused to his Cherub—now his Principality—always his Angel.

The tiny shocked gasps of Aziraphale’s making are distant, as the demon is distracted by the thrum of energy and the infernal blood pumping loudly in his ears. He sees without looking, listens without hearing, and touches without feeling. The area around the old scar is not as red, though the golden mar hadn’t faded at all, the damage is lessened. Crowley can feel the last of his Grace leak out and into Aziraphale, and while the wound may never fully heal, may never stop causing these random days of pain, hopefully it would be enough. Enough to weaken the ache, enough to spread the bad days further apart, and if not, if not Crowley would still be here to massage and tend to this ancient hurt.

He’s tired, deep past his skin and muscle and bones and into his core, his center. Crowley is certain he won’t be up to performing miracles, demonic or otherwise, for a while. He blearily opens his eyes and finds his vision filled with white. While not unexpected, it certainly was a nuisance that he’d been blinded for his efforts. He closed his eyes and focused on using his heat pits instead, knowing vaguely where Aziraphale was would just have to be enough.

Now that his Grace had been depleted, he focused once more on simply massaging the thigh. Running his hands up and down, gently applying pressure until muscles loosened and eased. When finished with the one thigh, he decided it was silly not to continue, and found himself kneading at strong calf muscle. He felt the vibrations of Aziraphale’s murmurs, but it seemed his hearing was gone as well. A good thing he could sense vibrations, but a shame he couldn’t make a phrase out of them.

He gave a noncommittal hum and continued tenderly kneading. He worked his knuckles into the muscles on the sides of his shin bone. Worked his palm into the outside muscle, warming and applying more chamomile scented oil. A soothing scent that would hopefully help relax the angel. Whether it was the scented oils or the massage, Crowley found that Aziraphale was relaxing once more into his ministrations. He’d occasionally give a rumble of vibration, perhaps a groan.

When he continued to move down, rubbing and gently tending to the Achille’s tendon, the rumbles and vibrations picked up. He didn’t think anything of it until he moved still to Aziraphale’s feet. When he tried to rub fingers into the arch he got rewarded with a kick to the chest. He must’ve looked perplexed because he could feel the rumbles in a sort of pattern, one easily identifiable as laughter. Aziraphale was ticklish? The thought made Crowley smile, but he placed a thumb back in the arch, his other hand gently holding Aziraphale still by the ankle. He warmed his hand and firmly rubbed, he could still feel the occasional laughing vibrations and the jerks of an angel being both tickled and soothed.

When he finished with that foot, he moved back up to Aziraphale’s other thigh. A sparking heat to warm his hands and a trickle of oil, and he began working on that thigh. Even the minor miracles, ones normally requiring nothing more than a thought, were taxing. But he had a mission, and while generally a slothful demon, he could be diligent for Aziraphale. He felt what might’ve been an inquiring hum, or even perhaps a question.

“Seems silly to not get this leg too,” Crowley said, hoping it came out sounding normal. It was weird not being able to hear himself talk. In order to avoid any questions, he simply pressed firmly into the muscles beneath his hands. This leg wasn’t nearly as tight, tense, or pained, but still he kneaded and massaged until Aziraphale was lax under him.

He worked the calf muscles on this leg as well, trying not to let his fingers shake with the exhaustion hooking its talons into him. Deft fingers prodded and rubbed and worked. Each vibration of contentment, of appreciation, of gratitude was enough to fuel his ministrations. Crowley moved from calf to Achille’s tendon, getting a larger, deeper vibration.

He was prepared this time, a hand wrapping the angel’s ankle and the other warmed and delivering a firm rub with his thumb up and down the arch. He smiled as he felt more laughing vibrations and the shake and twitch of the ankle in his hand. When he was finished, he decided to crawl up the bed, curled up next to the lovely warmth of the angel. A thick arm wrapped around him, drawing him close to lay his head on Aziraphale’s chest.

He felt the angel trying to talk to him, but the vibrations didn’t enlighten him to what was being said. Crowley just hummed and nuzzled into the soft shirt and flicked his tongue. He smelled Aziraphale’s cologne, dusty books, that fresh scent after a hard rain that was so inherently Holy, and something uniquely his angel. Crowley felt Aziraphale sigh, and in response he wrapped his long limbs around him, and then he felt a hand softly stroking his hair. It wasn’t long until he fell asleep.

Aziraphale had been laying there at Crowley’s behest. The dear boy had frightened him earlier with his strange outburst. Perhaps a panic attack? He’d never seen Crowley like that before, and it was worrisome. Oh, but his leg hurt so much, and if the demon wanted to take care of him, well, who was he to complain? It hadn’t come as a surprise that Crowley could lift him, seeing as they were both supernatural beings, but it wasn’t often the demon flaunted this, preferring to blend in with humans. It was strangely endearing.

It was adorable when Crowley blushed at removing his trousers. They were sexless beings who’d been around before time was even finalized into being. Yet here Crowley was, embarrassed about removing the trousers covering his corporation, not even his True-Form. Aziraphale watched as Crowley gently maneuvered him around, ever so careful, stripping him from his togs.

He could feel the shift in Crowley as he peeked at Aziraphale’s True-Form, taking a look at the tear in his essence. Aziraphale was gripped briefly then, by self-consciousness. Would Crowley think less of him? Did he find this scar aesthetically displeasing? After so many years of it being on his corporation, Aziraphale had rather grown used to it, even beginning to like it. The gold was quite lovely, he thought, he just wished it didn’t hurt him so much.

The smell of warm chamomile was instantly soothing, and then hands warmed with Hellfire were on him. The hands working into his sore, tight muscles were doing Heavenly—or, rather, wonderful work. Already Aziraphale was feeling better, which had been more than he was really expecting. Crowley seemed to be concentrating ever so hard, it was rather sweet of the demon to be so concerned.

He couldn’t help the gasp as he felt Crowley’s metaphysical energy brushing against his old war wound. Aziraphale had thought it would hurt, that he’d be more tender in the metaphysical space, but Crowley’s touch was tender. The angel could feel his neurons and nerves being knit back together, causing him to gasp frequently and wetly at the strange sensations. A soothing balm seemed to cover his thigh, the old irritation calming.

He might’ve had tears in his eyes, the intense pain all but disappearing was such a relief. And still Crowley massaged him, taking away lingering aches until it was nothing but pleasurable. Then, surprisingly, Crowley moved down, continuing his delightful ministrations. Aziraphale groaned, “my dear?” The returning hum wasn’t quite what he was expecting, but Crowley’s eyes were closed once more, and he looked to be in concentration again.

When Crowley moved down to Aziraphale’s Achille’s tendon the angel tried to warn him, “Crowley, dear! Please, I’m ticklish!” But the demon must’ve been too focused, as he moved to his foot, Aziraphale couldn’t help the jerking kick, ending up hitting the poor dear in the chest. Crowley looked up, looking so befuddled, and Aziraphale was laughing. He tried to apologize, but the giggles wouldn’t stop as Crowley merely grabbed his ankle and kept rubbing. It felt good, it really did, but he couldn’t stop giggling and twitching.

Aziraphale expected that to be the end, but Crowley simply moved to continue on the other leg. “Crowley?” the angel couldn’t help but be concerned, Crowley was looking quite tired, yet determined. Something seemed wrong with his eyes, they weren’t focused on the task at hand, in fact, they didn’t seem to even be looking at him.

“Seems silly to not get this leg too,” Crowley’s voice was very quiet. Whatever insane healing he had done must’ve taken quite a lot out of him indeed. The amount of power it must’ve taken to get his old wound healed, and it was _quite_ an old wound. It might not be perfect, it might never fully heal, but already it was so much better. Already the relief was staggering.

Crowley continued, much in the same was as he had with the other leg. Aziraphale could only relax and give an occasional groan in appreciation. By the time the demon was done, Aziraphale was feeling light and still a little giggly from the tickling foot massage. Then Crowley crawled right up next to him but wasn’t nearly close enough. “Come here, my darling dear,” Aziraphale placed an arm around him and pulled him close, resting Crowley’s head on his chest.

“Thank you so much for this, my love. I don’t know how you did it, but I feel so much better. Better than I have in years even,” Aziraphale sighed as Crowley merely nuzzled him, hummed, and scented him with that snake tongue of his. The poor dear must have been utterly exhausted. He began gently petting and rubbing his hair, Crowley was quickly put to sleep.


End file.
